I Tried to Buy a U.S. Car (Sigh)

By Verne W. Newton;

Published: January 24, 1992

HYDE PARK, N.Y.—
Before entering the car market in the spring for the first time in 15 years, I resolved to buy American -- a four-door Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. After a broker and I expressed contempt for Americans who buy imports, I specified the features: antilock brakes, front-wheel drive, console gear shift, lumbar seats. I asked about an airbag.

Not possible, he replied. He told me that I would have to go to a larger car but that I didn't want an airbag: they pop open for no reason, causing horrible accidents, and it costs $1,000 each time to restuff them. He would call the next day, he said, and I could be driving my new car by the weekend.

After four days, I called him. He was still looking for my car. Another call never came. That weekend, I went by his office. The car was at a dealership 40 minutes away. He said, "Why don't you go over and take it for a spin?" Features? It had a column shift, no lumbar seats and was a two-door, not four. So much for the Olds.

Told by a car-maven friend that the Pontiac Grand Prix was nearly identical to the Cutlass Supreme, I went to see one. As I entered the showroom, the salesmen jumped up and rushed toward the door. Although car sales were stagnant, I had not expected such a reception. Actually, the coffee wagon had arrived and they were heading for the doughnuts. No one remained behind for the prospect.

After I finally asked a salesman for help, he said they had nothing on the lot that met my needs. They could check with other dealers or could order from Detroit. How long would that take? Depends. Could be six to eight weeks. (The dealership went under a few months later.)

Ford's SHO had nearly all the features I wanted, minus an airbag. I started talking lease versus purchase with an immaculately dressed, very personable salesman. Could he fax me the numbers? No problem. I never heard from him again.

I had looked forward to being pampered. But it seemed that getting the car I wanted was my problem. The selling was up to me. My frustration was heating up. What I had thought would take days was growing to weeks, perhaps months.

I finally went to BMW. It was not until I was negotiating hairpin turns in a 318 that I realized that none of the American dealers had suggested I drive one of their cars. Next, I drove the Nissan Maxima and the Toyota Cressida; they were nice but not enough for me to abandon my buy-American resolve. Then I went to Acura and drove the Legend. It had the safety and comfort features I wanted, and I could have it in a few days. The $30,000 price was too high. If I accepted fewer frills, it would cost $26,000.

The next day, I drove to an Olds dealer in another town. Buying there would mean extra time for maintenance, but I felt I had a duty. I told the owner, "Stop me, I'm about to buy Japanese." His lot had a wide array of models. Four doors? Antilock brakes? An airbag? Not possible. Two doors, with antilock brakes but no airbag, or front-wheel drive and not the model I wanted. Antilock brakes in a model I would consider, but two doors, a column shift, and I had to buy not lease it. He looked around for two days. Nothing. It was too late to order a 1991 from Detroit, he explained. Why not wait for the 92's? How long? Six months.

That afternoon I bought the Acura. In Detroit's book, I'm probably a casualty of predatory Japanese trade practices. In my book, Detroit's overpaid executives not only don't know how to make cars, they don't even know how to sell them anymore.